


Too Everything

by Sarren



Category: Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Gay Bar, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-03-15 05:41:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13606743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarren/pseuds/Sarren
Summary: Chandler runs into Kent at a gay bar.





	Too Everything

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MildredMost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MildredMost/gifts).



> A Chocolate Box Treat.
> 
> Thank you to rosefox for a great SPaG beta and to spiderstanspiderstan for Britpicking.

Everything is too loud, too bright, too sweaty. Too everything. There’s no sign of his contact, and Joe suspects it’s because he clearly doesn’t belong here. He’d thought getting rid of his tie and swapping out his suit jacket for a leather coat would work, but of course it was too hot to keep it on; nothing sexy about a red-faced sweaty mess who looks like they’re about to pass out. 

He’d ended up checking the coat and leaning against the bar gulping down ice water. He knows he looks uncomfortable and he’s not sure how much longer he can stand here trying to ignore the sweat sticking to his shirt and his armpits. He’s got clean shirts in the boot of his car, of course, but that’s parked two streets away, and assuming his contact hasn’t spooked already, knowing his luck, he’d show up while Joe was gone.

“Sir!” 

There’s hand on his arm, quick pressure and then gone. Joe turns. In the strobe lighting, Kent’s face is ghostly but his tentative smile is welcome. The stress Joe hadn’t been fully aware of, tightening the muscles of his neck and shoulders, disappears. He feels lighter; the tension headache that had been threatening for the last little while fades.

“Kent,” he greets him, though he doubts Kent can hear him over the techno music blasting from the nearby speakers. He can tell his smile is too wide, too relieved, because Kent’s brows crease even as he responds to Joe’s smile with a wide, happy grin of his own.

Kent shoulders his way between Joe and the stranger who’s leaning against the bar trying to get the bartender’s attention, to Joe’s relief. The man’s shirtless and wet with sweat. His nipple rings glint when the light glances over them and he’s overdone the body spray; Joe’s been attempting, unsuccessfully, to lean out of range. 

Kent is flushed and breathless. He’s no doubt just come off the dance floor, and when he leans up to Joe’s ear so he can make himself heard, Joe’s aware of the scent of a light aftershave, mixed with fresh sweat, and he’s surprised to realise that he doesn’t find the smell off-putting. For all that it’s more pungent than usual, it’s a familiar scent. It’s Kent. 

“I said, what brings you here, sir?” Kent leans back, but not very far. There’s nowhere to go—another punter’s pushed up to the bar in the tiny space that had opened up behind him.

“I’m meeting someone.”

Kent’s eyes go wide, and Joe remembers belatedly that they’re in a gay club, so Kent will have drawn the obvious conclusion. Come to think of it, Kent’s here too, and unlike Joe, he looks at home, in his tight white t-shirt with the name of some band Joe’s never heard of. 

Even as Joe opens his mouth to explain, Kent’s expression changes. After all these years, after everything he’s seen, everything he’s been through, Kent’s never learned not to dissemble, not to hide his feelings, not to care. His face is, as always an open book. 

He looks stricken.

Joe’s stomach clenches. “Not like that,” he says hurriedly. He raises a hand and pats Kent’s shoulder awkwardly, attempting to reassure him while not crossing the boundary into inappropriate behaviour.

Trouble is, he’s not sure where that line is anymore with Kent. The man’s a dozen years his junior and that used to matter, back in the first couple of years, when Kent was wide-eyed and naïve and his hero worship was so embarrassingly blatant not even Mansell had the heart to tease him too much.

But Kent’s 30th birthday’s coming up shortly, which Joe knew even before Erica’s email invite to his surprise birthday party arrived, and it’s been a long time since he’s been the innocent boy he’d been when Joe first became his DI.

Kent’s hero worship hasn’t so much faded over the years as it has matured. Everyone knows, although they apparently think Joe’s so oblivious that’s he’s managed to miss the eyes that used to follow him around, the eagerness to please, the jealousy, even the one time Kent had sort of accidentally invited him out for a drink. Joe remembers that moment clearly, when he—high on endorphins and triumph and feeling like he could do anything—had thought, just for a split second, _why the hell not?_

Then, of course, reality had come crashing down like the curse it was. By the time they’d eventually captured Iver and established once and for all that she was just a smarter than average psychopath, that tiny window of opportunity, that possibility, had become one of many roads not taken.

Later on, when the dust had settled and life had returned to normal, Miles had taken him down to the fish pond and explained, patiently for him, that _Kent’s bloody in love with you, you wally, are you going to finally do something about it or what?_ Joe had reasonably and coolly explained that yes, he wasn’t blind, thank you, but that there were rules against fraternisation with subordinates for a reason and unless Miles wanted one of them to transfer to another team he should jolly well stop matchmaking. He’d sat down on the bench, taken a long swig of his beer to finish it off, looked up at Miles’s concerned face, and pointed out that Kent was still young and deserved to be with someone with fewer… issues. Miles had sat down beside him and—unusually for him—had leaned into Joe’s side as he responded, sadly and with deep affection, _you’re a sad case, you know that?_

Now Kent is staring at him, his eyes huge. Joe’s hand is still resting on his shoulder, the fine muscles shifting under his fingers, and the angle’s awkward because they’re practically chest to chest. Joe’s chest feels tight, his respiration rate has increased, and he’s having trouble right now remembering why he’s been so determined to keep Kent at a distance, when having him so close is having such a powerful effect on him. He’s sweating more again, and it should be bothering him, but his mind isn’t fighting him for once, his mind seems to have other things to occupy it, like the fact that Kent’s eyes have dropped to his mouth. Kent looks pensive. His teeth have caught at his bottom lip, and he seems to be trying to decide something. An expression of resolution settles on his face.

Joe knows that if he doesn’t do something… say something… right now, Kent’s going to kiss him and Joe doesn’t know what will happen after that. It’s both terrifying and liberating. He finds himself holding his breath; he feels suspended, stretched, waiting.

And then there’s some sort of scuffle or group hug or something just behind them and a young man with purple hair knocks into Kent. He’s jolted forward against Joe’s chest. Joe’s hands come up automatically to clutch at his waist, to stop his momentum. They’re pressed against each other now, Joe’s hands clutching Kent’s waist. He releases his grip, but doesn’t let go, his hands resting on Kent’s waist, the fingertips of one hand rest against hot, bare, sweaty skin where his t-shirt has ridden up. 

Joe has a sudden urge to slide his fingertips along that patch of exposed skin, to slide under his shirt, but then, instead of leaning in for the kiss, Joe watches, disbelieving, his stomach sinking, as Kent’s eyes clear, as if recalled to a sense of their surroundings, of their respective positions, of their entire history of denial and unrequited feelings.

Kent steps back. Their bodies are no longer touching and Joe finds he doesn’t want that, he’s not used to the sensation suffusing him—the heat, the hunger to touch—and he wants more. He’s stepping forward again, not sure what he’s doing, his hands sliding around Kent’s waist again. Kent’s frozen, his face tilted up to Joe’s. His mouth has parted; he doesn’t look like he’s even breathing now. He looks like someone whose dreams are coming true and they can’t quite believe it’s real. 

Joe can’t quite believe it’s real either, that he’s finally doing this. He has a momentary thought that Miles will be proud of him and then Kent is breathing, “Sir?” and Joe forgets everything, forgets Miles, forgets the techno beat that makes the floor reverberate, and the mass of sweaty bodies surrounding him. 

“Call me Joe,” he says and he leans forward those last couple of inches, pressing his lips to Kent’s. Kent’s arms come up around him immediately, winding around his neck. He presses his body against Joe’s and Joe can feel that he’s hard already. Joe’s half way there himself. Kent’s tongue is in his mouth now; he’s kissing Joe like he’s desperate for it. 

Joe finds himself responding to Kent’s fervour. He’s kissing him back, his hands sliding under Kent’s t-shirt, exploring the muscles of his back. Kent shudders against him. Joe realises his hands have dipped lower, against the swell of his backside. He leans back, an apology on his lips already forming, but then Kent says “Let’s get out of here,” and Joe nods, wordless. When Kent takes his hand and leads him out of the club, he follows willingly. 

It’s not until the next morning, when his alarm goes off and he slides out from under the arm draped possessively across his chest, that Joe remembers about the contact he was supposed to meet. As he watches Emerson stirring, stretching and yawning and smiling sleepily up at him, though, he can’t bring himself to care.


End file.
